


We Are Family

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Fic Collection, M/M, Orgies, Polygamy, Smut, Tags and Pairs To Be Added, Team as Family, Threesomes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-09-15 18:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16938585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Polycule.Definition: refers collectively to all of the people who are in a relationship with one or more other members of the group. The term is a portmanteau of "polyamory" and "molecule".(An open-ended collection of shorts about the Pittsburgh Penguins polycule; each chapter is in the same “universe” but can be read separately.  Latest: Letang/Dumoulin/Maatta.)





	1. Sid/Geno/Phil, October 2015

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be open-ended and updated on no set schedule. Each chapter is planned to be self-contained and can be read separately depending on your pairing preferences, although chapter 1 establishes some world-building.

Phil’s on vacation when he gets the call. _Traded,_ they say. _Tough decision but...business reasons...we appreciate your contributions...good luck in Pittsburgh._

He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, if he’s totally honest with himself. Most people would probably think he’d welcome the news, given his contentious relationship with the Toronto media, the unyielding pressures placed upon all of the Maple Leafs which Phil is apparently uniquely unsuited to handle, if you believe the press. But Phil wanted to make it work, and now he won’t get the chance to.

Moreover, Pittsburgh is an interesting situation. It’s not that chemistry-building or relationships are _unusual_ in the NHL. On the Leafs, it was pretty typical to see Bernier and Reimer together, in their own little world. Gards took a special liking to Rielly. And Phil himself would sometimes go home after a shit game, and Bozie would make him a snack and lay on top of him like a blanket while he ate, comforting in his weight. Sometimes that would turn into more, the snacks pushed aside, television ignored in the slide of warm hands and wet mouths.

But the Leafs aren’t like Pittsburgh. Hell, _nobody_ is like Pittsburgh. At least that’s what the rumors say, that the Penguins are some sort of weird Mormon-like cult of hookups and love with one Sidney Patrick Crosby at the top.

The general consensus has their team dynamic starting after the 2008 loss to Detroit in the Finals. Phil doesn’t know what happened that summer, nobody except that team really does, but they went from a disjointed team that had just lost the biggest prize to a tight, functional unit in training camp. It was like they coalesced into a solar system with Sid as the sun, bright and shining in the center of it all. You could barely get an interview with him during post-game without some teammate - Staal, Malkin, Letang, _anybody_ \- hanging on him like some lovesick puppy.

Phil remembers openly mocking it alongside his Leafs teammates. But then the Penguins won it all that year, and people mostly stopped laughing.

And now Phil is going to join this team, for all its successes and oddities. But he’s still on vacation, and he has some fish to catch, so he puts it out of his mind for the next few hours and enjoys the beer and the lake and the weather.

When he straggles back to shore, half-drunk with the rest of his buddies, he has a text from Crosby. _Welcome to the Penguins,_ it says. _We’re excited to have you! Shoot me your email and I can send along some info on Pittsburgh._

Phil shrugs and does so, and wakes up the next morning to multiple meticulously crafted emails about Pittsburgh neighborhoods, housing prices, the practice rink, the best restaurants. Crosby is nothing if not thorough.

They talk on the phone the next day, although it’s brief, just typical captain stuff. Sid is a lot more relaxed in one-on-one discussions than the sometimes wooden and robotic way he presents himself to the media, and Phil already feels somewhat of a kinship with the man on that front. Sid doesn’t bring up any expectations or explanations about the team dynamic and Phil doesn’t ask. There’s plenty of time for that, he figures.

They get to training camp and Phil’s not sure what he expected - a team welcome orgy? - but no, it’s nothing like that. There is an odd sense of warmth and unity, especially for it being a training camp, the place where young guys attempt to take jobs away from veterans. Off the ice, Sid is never more than arm’s length away from one of the young guys trying to make the team. They seem to flock to him like baby birds, while the veterans smirk knowingly and try their best to take others under their wings, too. Sid can’t be everywhere at once, after all. But while there’s a lot more hugging than Phil’s used to, there’s nothing overtly sexual. It’s...nice, really.

Phil’s awkward, he knows he is, but the team welcomes him with open arms immediately. Somebody almost certainly named Marc-Andre Fleury manages to doctor his towel with powdered food dye, turning his skin a weird shade of pink for a day or two, but the prank is entirely fond and not malicious. Pascal Dupuis buys him a nice wine and a case of local craft beer (“Housewarming gift,” he’d said with a smile. “Didn’t know if you were a beer or wine guy, so I got you both!”). Patric Hornqvist takes him on a tour of downtown, his driving almost as crazy as his playing style.

Phil’s almost questioning the team’s odd reputation, because it just seems more of a touchy-feely friendly vibe than most teams but nothing weird. But then final cuts are made, and the team is solidified into the group that is going to be the Pittsburgh Penguins, and then he starts to understand why the team has the reputation that it does.

It’s after practice, the first day after final cuts are made and after the media has left, and the entire locker room suddenly falls hushed. Even Patric, who had been loudly telling an off-colored story to Phil, falls quiet and looks over towards Sid.

_Everyone_ is looking over towards Sid. So Phil does, too. The team seems to be waiting for something.

Sid smiles warmly. “Boys, I gotta go with the newbie today,” he says. “Spronger? You want…?”

“Hell yeah,” Daniel says, eyes lighting up, while the rest of the team groans.

“Come on, I killed it today at practice,” Patric gripes, but Phil can tell he’s joking, and Sid laughs in his direction and waves him off.

“What, uh…” Phil trails off. He hates feeling like he’s left out of something, missing something important. “What just happened?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Patric looks surprised, and opens his mouth to talk further, but then a shadow falls over the pair and he doesn’t get the chance to.

It’s Sid, and his attention is directed towards Phil, and it’s _stupid_ but Phil really likes that, wants more of it. “Phil, I’m a real jerk to not give you more of a intro to what we’ve got going on here. We just had _so_ many rookies at camp, and...man, that’s no excuse though. Dinner? Tomorrow? My place at 6?”

“Oh come on! You unavailable tomorrow, too?” Patric protests, and Sid honks a laugh and bends down to kiss the pout off his lips.

“Shut up, Horny,” he says, fondly, and turns his attention back to Phil, and _oh._ There are perhaps more to the rumors than Phil had previously thought. He nods, trying to keep a calm outer facade.

“Six o’clock, bud. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself,” Sid says, then blinks. “Wait actually, you've got a dog, right? Stella. Bring her too, if you want. Does she like to come out and visit?”

“If you have people food, she’s _there,”_ Phil says, because that’s definitely true, she’s a spoiled little princess. “Stella would love to come.”

“You and Stella, six o’clock,” Sid confirms, playfully nudging him in the shoulder and then turning to go.

Phil takes a moment to glance around the locker room, wide-eyed. There’s two other new guys to the league that have made the opening day roster. Sergei Plotnikov is sitting next to Malkin in his stall, and they’re speaking rapid-fire Russian. Evgeni - _Geno_ \- has his hand on Sergei’s thigh, casually intimate.

Across the room with the defenseman, Brian Dumoulin’s the other new kid. Upon Sid’s announcement of ‘Spronger’, he’d hung his head and stared at the floor, obviously upset, and now he’s squished in between Kris Letang and Olli Maatta. He’s holding both their hands; Olli has his face tucked up into Brian’s neck, nuzzling at his chin, and Kris has his free hand _somewhere_ under Brian’s shirt. None of the three seem concerned about doing whatever they’re doing right here in the locker room.

“You can come home with me if you want,” Patric tells him, and Phil guiltily yanks his eyes back to Hornqvist, away from the rest of the locker room. “I mean, I’d like it. But I get if you wanna wait for Sid first.”

Phil still doesn’t know what the hell this is, so he shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer but I’ll, uh, wait.”

“That’s probably smart,” Patric says, clapping him on the shoulder with a wink. “See you tomorrow!”

Phil heads out just in time to overhear Olli asking, “Do you want to?” to Dumoulin, and the kid is flushed red and nodding. In the parking lot, he sees Daniel get into Sid’s car, and it looks like they kiss before they pull away. What the hell has he gotten himself into?

Practice and the locker room the next day are normal, although the Pens have an easy affection that Phil is still not quite used to. Phil wins the shootout contest that day at practice, and half the guys look more thrilled than he does, playfully bumping into him and giving hugs. Nick Bonino - who learned a few days earlier that Phil’s favorite candy was Ferrero Rocher - slips him one of the golden orbs after practice with a grin. “Figured you earned one after that sick shootout move today,” he says. There wasn’t really a _sick shootout move,_ Phil just skated in and snapped it hard, but he eats the candy anyway and tries to figure out if this is some sort of prank the entire team is playing on him where everyone’s super-duper nice and sweet to make him let his guard down.

He’s got a lot of angst about when to show up for dinner, because even though Sid said 6p, sometimes that means _not before then_ and sometimes it means _we start then so get here early_ and he sure as hell doesn’t want to ask. In the end, he decides to arrive exactly at six, waiting in his car until the dash reads 5:59p and then heading to the front door, Stella trailing behind on a leash. Phil has put a little bow on her collar and he thinks she looks awfully pretty.

It’s not Sid that answers, though. Geno, tall and lanky and wearing really hideous basketball shorts, grins out from the doorway. “Phil,” he says, gesturing for him to come inside. “You’re on time. Sid, what is word?”

“Punctual?” comes the voice from the kitchen.

Geno shrugs. “Sure, maybe? Anyway, you come in. Hello, look at you!” His expression goes goofy in the way that Stella can make grown men act, and he bends down to scratch her butt. She wiggles happily.

“This is Stella,” Phil says, as she dances for more attention. He’s still sort of surprised at Evgeni’s presence, but he supposes he shouldn’t be. What did he think was going to happen tonight?

“Stella. Is nice to meet you,” Geno intones seriously, as if he’s actually meeting a person.

There’s a huff from the kitchen. “I want to meet her,” Sid calls.

Geno smirks, standing up and motioning him to follow. “You heard boss,” he says. “Come on.”

The kitchen smells like steak, and Sid’s at the stove eyeing a hunk of meat searing on a cast iron. “Medium, right?” he asks Phil.

Alright, now this has _got_ to be some sort of prank; Phil can see two sides being kept warm, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, and along with a nice medium ribeye it’s his absolute favorite meal. “Yeah, medium. You know this is like legit my favorite meal?”

“Of course we know,” Geno says. “You tell Kuni a few days ago. He tell us.”

He _had_ told Kunitz a few days ago, in an idle conversation about their favorite meals that he didn’t expect to go anywhere. And yet...

“Here, watch the steaks,” Sid says, handing the tongs over to Geno and bending down to pet Stella. “Kuni wanted to be here tonight, but he had something with his kids, so he sends his regrets. Holy shit Phil, your dog is _adorable.”_

It’s hard not to admire Sid as he’s bent over. His shorts are significantly tighter than Geno’s, but mostly because he fills them out quite unlike Phil’s ever seen before. Everything is massive, his quads, calves, thighs, ass. Even through his skepticism over everyone being so damn _nice_ and welcoming, it’s hard not to stare. He glances back up at Geno, who’s caught the whole thing and is smirking at Phil’s admiration. He coughs, ducking his eyes away, embarrassed. “She’s a good girl,” he mutters.

“I think is done,” Geno says, and Sid jumps up and gently nudges him out of the way with his hip, apparently not trusting his judgment. Geno turns to grab plates, and there’s an easy familiarity with the way he moves about Sid’s kitchen and drawers, knowing where everything is.

“Here,” Geno says, pulling open a drawer with utensils. “Phil, you get knives and forks?”

“Sure.” Phil collects the silverware while Sid deposits the steaks onto the plates, and he doesn’t miss the quick glance that goes between the other two men, a little grin, like they’re still excited to hang out together after all this time.

“Serve yourself,” Sid says cheerfully, spooning a dollop of potatoes and some spinach onto his own plate.

Geno takes an absolutely _massive_ amount of sides, which makes Phil feel better about loading up on the mashed potatoes; they look awesome, Phil can never seem to get the consistency right, coming out all grainy every time he tries. He follows the other two out of the kitchen, and fully expects to be heading towards the dining room and a formal place setting - Sidney Crosby seems the type to eat _politely_ \- but nope, they’re going into the living room.

Geno sets his plate on the expansive coffee table, then gestures next to the television. “There is, um - eating stands over there, if you want,” he says, and Phil glances over to see a couple very nice looking TV trays, folded neatly. They’re like, _high class_ TV trays. Phil didn’t even know they made those in anything but shitty plastic. “Me and Sid don’t use. But you can.”

“Nah, that’s okay.” Phil has done a lot of eating in front of the TV, balancing a plate on his lap, and it feels a lot more normal than a TV tray or eating in a formal dining room. This isn’t what he expected at all, but he finds it kind of charming, that Sid’s just another dude his age that wants to watch Netflix in comfy clothes while scarfing down a steak.

“What do you want to watch?” Sid asks, starting up his frankly ridiculous entertainment system.

Geno - sitting close to Sid even though the couch is massive - elbows Sid in the side. “You let Sid choose, he watch hockey,” he says. “Always hockey. Like we don’t get enough.”

“There’s not even any hockey on,” Sid protests. “Opening night isn’t til tomorrow.”

“You find something, Sid. Always do.”

They bicker playfully, like an old married couple, and Phil is stuck between his burning curiosity about _what all of this is_ and wanting to just hang out with them a little more, soak up their good vibes. He’s not even really sure which option he’s going to pick until, “I was hoping we could talk a little more about the team,” comes out of his mouth and well, that’s that.

“Oh, of course,” Sid says, and somehow he’s already halfway through his steak, so Phil cuts a big chunk and shoves it in his mouth while Sid keeps talking. Stella sits by his feet, staring at his steak, and he slips her a little piece too, and then another. “So you’ve probably noticed the Pens are a little different than most teams in the league. We believe that the key to a strong team _on_ the ice, is a strong team _off_ the ice. And that has sort of manifested into these, uh...relationships.”

“Is like this,” Geno says, pointing his fork at Phil. “Penguins are tree, big tree. Sid is trunk. All of us, we are branches, come back to trunk. Make tree strong.”

Phil frowns. “Does that mean...Sid, you’re like, in a relationship with everybody?”

“Shockingly, Geno’s analogy isn’t too bad,” Sid says, pulling his arm back when Geno goes to poke him with his fork. “I’m in a relationship with those that want it. Because, just like a real tree, all the branches connect, but not all the branches necessarily touch the trunk. On our team right now, for instance, you’ve got Perry - uh, David Perron. He and I, I mean we _like_ each other, but just as friends.”

“But Perry is with Flower and Tanger and Duper,” Geno tells him. “And Sid with them. So all connects.”

“You’re talking sexually,” Phil says, and Geno and Sid both share a look.

“More than just sex,” Sid says slowly, pushing aside his empty plate. “It’s really genuine affection and love. A real relationship. And yeah, sex is part of it. But look, we’ve sometimes had guys that were absolutely not interested in someone outside their wives, and that’s fine. They bonded with us in other ways. So if you’re not into it - “

“I wouldn’t say I’m not into it,” Phil says, watching as Geno and Sid share another look, a little more relieved this time. “I wouldn’t say that at all, no.”

Sid twists off the cap of his Gatorade, taking a long drink. “If you want, tonight, I figured maybe we could welcome you properly to the Penguins.”

Phil’s not entirely sure what that means - some kind of innuendo, he thinks - but Geno to the rescue. “He wants to fuck you,” Geno says. “Or you fuck him. Or just blowjob? Sid easy. Sid want what you want. That’s why we all love him.”

Phil’s plate is finally empty, and he feels pleasantly full, usually a time when his body is interested in lazing around and doing nothing. But his dick jumps a little at that proclamation, and luckily Stella has realized there’s no more steak available and is snoozing on the rug. Still, there’s something nagging at him. “So is this all about obligation for you?” he asks Sid. He’s not sure he could stand that. He already really likes Sid a lot, understands why the team orbits around him. But if Phil meant nothing except just another new teammate that Sid feels like he has to fuck...

Sid scoots over on the couch until he’s close enough that Phil can _feel_ him, gooseflesh raising on his skin at the proximity. “Phil,” Sid interrupts his brooding to cup his face, and the way he looks at Phil makes him believe he’s the only thing in the universe for him right then. “Not an obligation. At _all._ We want you as part of our family. We want you to fall in love, with me, with the team, and we’ll love you back. There’s someone special for you here, Phil, maybe multiple special people. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s Bones. Maybe it’s both of us, or someone else entirely.”

“Bones?” Phil asks, circling his hands around Sid’s wrists. God, even _those_ are thick. “Why Bones?”

“Bones crazy about you already,” Geno says from across the couch. “Head over heels crazy. You two have great chemistry, you see.”

“Huh,” Phil says, and then his eyes go wide. He’s not sure how he’s managing to remember anything with Sid’s face so tantalizing close, but he’s also nervous about making the first move, and so he’s gonna keep talking. “Wait, he brought me chocolate the other day. Was that uhhh...flirting or something?”

“The whole team’s been flirting with you, Phil,” Sid says with a soft smile.

“You clueless,” Geno teases, and suddenly it all makes sense, how damn nice everyone is, the gifts, the favors. He thinks about Bones again - Nick isn’t his usual type, but he seems like a pretty cool dude - but then all thoughts about Nick Bonino vanish when Sid shifts closer and presses his stupidly-soft mouth to Phil’s.

Sid pulls back a bare half-inch, close enough that when he talks his mouth still brushes Phil’s. “This okay?” he asks, and Phil doesn’t answer, just kisses him again. He tastes like steak and a little hint of sweet Gatorade and it’s not the best combination but Phil can’t think of anything he wants less than for Sid to stop kissing him.

There’s a hand on his shorts; Geno’s reaching over Sid to roll his big palm against Phil’s dick, and he shudders and goes slack against Sid’s mouth. “We want take care of you,” Geno says, and his voice is low and breathy, accent thicker in his arousal. “Tell us what you want.”

Phil wants _everything,_ but if these guys are telling the truth he’s got plenty of time to do it. For tonight, Sid’s mouth is incredible on his own, and he just wants to sit back and digest and let those lips works their magic on his dick if he’s being honest. “Blowjob?” he asks, a little timid about it, and Geno laughs in delight while Sid grins.

“Sid’s mouth best. You see,” Geno says, and Sid slides off the couch and down onto his knees. Stella doesn’t wake up, and Phil sends a silent prayer of thanks upwards.

Phil openly stares as Sid works open the button and zipper on his shorts, because _Sidney Crosby_ on his knees in front of him, getting ready to blow him, is a sight he never thought he’d see. He sort of wants to keep watching, but then Geno slides over and grabs at his chin and kisses him. Evgeni is so different from Sid, whose lips were soft and whose kisses were tender and warm. Geno _ravishes._ Geno kisses like a starving man, like he’s laying a claim of possession, and Phil - ...well, he kind of likes it.

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers, strangled, into Geno’s mouth as Sid pulls him free from his shorts and gets his mouth on him. Sid’s mouth is just as good as it was kissing, _better_ even. Sid grabs one of Phil’s hands, tangles their fingers together, an affectionate gesture in sharp contrast to the obscene picture of his plush lips sliding down his cock.

“Good view, yes?” Geno asks with a wicked smirk, carding his fingers through Sid’s hair. “Sid loves sucking dick. Don’t you, Sid?”

Sid groans in response, and the vibrations crawl straight up Phil’s groin and settle hot in his stomach. “Fuck,” he murmurs again, and Geno rucks his shirt up and slides his free hand up Phil’s chest, sliding a rough thumb against his nipple.

“Sid likes these played with,” he growls in Phil’s ear. “You like, too?”

“Uh…” Geno keeps stroking his thumb until the nipple is a stiff peak, and when he pulls his hand away to move to the other Phil arches up at the lost touch. “I uh, didn’t think I did, but I guess...guess so. Yeah. Keep doing that.”

Geno chuckles, and that’s when Sid opens up and slides down, taking everything in a glorious, amazing deep throat. Between the warm heat on his cock and the unyielding strokes of Geno’s hand, he can’t do anything but stare at the ceiling and let his brain fuzz out at the pleasure. “Sid want to learn everything about your body,” Geno huffs. “Me too. We make you feel so good. _Team_ make you feel so good, want to love you so bad.”

_“Fuck,”_ Phil yelps out, because apparently that’s the only word his brain is capable of saying right now, and he jerks his hips up and comes into the warm heat of Sid’s mouth. He blinks dumbly up at the ceiling for a moment before registering his regret, that he didn’t even give any _warning_. He doesn’t know if Sid’s okay with swallowing, goddamnit. “Sorry,” he murmurs, guiltily, but catching sight of Sid’s pleased grin he’s pretty sure he has nothing to worry about.

“No, it’s good. I like it,” Sid says, shuffling over a foot until he’s in the V of Geno’s legs. Geno is hard in his shorts, the material making an obvious tent.

“You did so good,” Geno praises, pushing a few sweaty locks behind Sid’s ears. “You want…?”

“Please,” Sid says, and again there’s a familiarity between them that makes Phil’s heart yearn a little bit. He scoots back to give them some room but watches intently as Geno pushes down his shorts and stands up. Sid’s waiting on his knees, and Geno very gently reaches down, presses at his chin to open Sid’s jaw, and pushes inside.

The tenderness evaporates quickly; Geno gets a hand on Sid’s hair and holds him still while he fucks down his throat like a sex toy. It looks painful and Sid’s making loud wet choking noises as Geno fucks his face, and it’s not Phil’s thing at all but Sid’s expression is joyous and eager and that’s hot in its own right. He again swallows happily when Geno comes, and then Geno’s yanking him to his feet and they’re clutching at each other and kissing.

Sid slumps on the couch next to Phil, Geno on the other side of him, and presses close again. “That was great,” he says, arm going around Phil’s belly. He can’t help but tense and try to suck in his stomach a little; he’s not like Sid, who is solid and built and _looks_ like an athlete with his clothes off. Phil’s an athlete too, but he’ll never look like Sid or even Geno, and right now that anxiety nags at him, that Sid’s going to feel his softness and change his mind.

Sid - of course - notices right away, and draws back. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh.” Phil’s eye is drawn to Sid’s own dick, curving hard against his shorts, neglected, and figures it’s as good of a cover as any. “You’re, uh. You know. What do you want?”

“Sid likes it sometimes, not coming,” Geno smirks, and pats Sid’s hard-on, causing him to whimper. “Says it makes it so much better when he does get off, if he waits sometimes. Sid, what you call it?”

“Edging,” Sid says, and Geno snaps his fingers and nods. “I tell Geno he should try it sometimes, but.” Sid grins back at Geno. “No patience for it. I think he’d explode if he got hard and _didn’t_ come.”

“You should stay,” Geno says, reaching around Sid and squeezing Phil’s thigh. “Sid wants it bad, in the morning, when he doesn’t get off at night. You could fuck him. Or he could fuck you. What you like? Can I watch?”

“Um.” Phil can feel himself pinking up a little. There’s still a bit of a stigma about bottoming in the league. Rookies bottom, goalies bottom, soft Euros bottom. Phil Kessel is none of those things, but he likes getting fucked, and thinking about Sid’s thick thighs as he thrusts makes Phil feel hot. And the fact that Geno wants to _watch_...the concept is frankly mind-blowing, and he’s secretly thrilled that Geno might find him hot enough that he’d want to simply watch. But the practice less-so. Phil doesn’t want to be on display, not until he trusts someone implicitly. He knows what he looks like on his knees, and it’s much more beer league than pro athlete.

Sid recognizes Phil’s reluctance, mouth growing thin. “This fucking backwards-ass league,” he snarls. “Nobody on the Penguins will ever give you shit for what you like or what you want. Is this because you want to bottom? Even Geno bottoms occasionally.”

Geno shrugs. “Sid love getting fucked. Wanted to see what fuss was about. But yes, is bullshit, because if Sid like bottom then nobody can say bottoms are soft or weak. Sid is strongest, best in league, and he bottom, so.” He shrugs again, but he’s starting to smile. “So yes. You stay? I want to watch Sid fuck you in the morning. I bet you take it so good, make prettiest noises.”

“I, uh. I dunno, man.” Phil’s leg starts to jiggle, an old bad anxiety habit, and he forces himself to stop before he shakes the whole couch.

Sid makes a soft _ah_ noise. “Geno’s nosy,” he murmurs. “But he doesn’t have to stay. It can be just the two of us. Just us, nobody else, and nothing we do leaves this house.”

Phil chews on his mouth for a moment, still unsure, but the way Sid’s looking at him, full of affection and warmth and _want_ puts it over the edge. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Come on, I want to hear details,” Geno grouses, although it’s friendly. “Fine, yes, you two have fun without me. Maybe I stay a little longer though?”

“Geno’s a snuggler,” Sid whispers, as if he’s sharing a great secret with Phil, and Geno gently punches him in the side before practically melting onto him. His weight knocks Sid further into Phil, and Sid rests his head on Phil’s shoulder. Phil’s never really considered himself a _snuggler_ , like Geno, but this...this is nice.

Stella suddenly jumps up on the couch and starts climbing into their laps, and Phil has to hurry up and adjust himself, make sure he’s properly tucked into his shorts, before she throws herself down across all three of them. She’s not quite big enough to be in three laps, mostly in Phil’s and a bit in Sid’s and just her tail pressed on Geno. “Stella says you can stay a little longer, it appears. Looks like you’ve got her seal of approval, boys. That means a lot.”

“I’m glad,” Sid laughs, kissing Phil again before turning his attention towards petting Stella. “Phil, she’s so _soft.”_

Complimenting Stella is the surest way to Phil’s heart, and his feels full and about ready to burst now. “So you’ll have to fill me in on the relationships,” he says.

“Easier to draw a diagram, I think,” Sid chuckles.

“Goalies have their own thing usually,” Geno says, and his tone indicates how _weird_ he finds goalies to be although it’s entirely fond. “Defense sometimes has - what is - pile of cuddle?”

“Cuddle puddle,” Sid corrects. “They take over the back of the team plane sometimes and just get touchy. The French Canadians have their thing, we talked about that earlier. Uh...a lot of times rookies tend to flock together. But there’s always sometimes some guys you look at and think, how did _that_ relationship get started? Beau and Tanger, for instance.”

“Tanger also very possessive of Sid. You don’t mind him. He ridiculous,” Geno says, rolling his eyes.

“Ultimately, there will be some guys, or some groups, that you connect with, and some you don’t, and that’s okay,” Sid says, scritching Stella. “Don’t force it, it’ll come organically. But I think we’re off to a pretty great start, huh?”

Phil lets his hand find Sid’s, squeezing. “Pretty great,” he agrees.


	2. Kuhnhackl/Sheary/Crosby (+Dumoulin,Rust,Murray), February 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions a huge couch-bed type thing and [here](https://www.hormonemale.com/img/compil_images/maisondesign/interieur_maison_design_2.jpg) is a visual aid for you! I picture it similarly (albeit maybe a bit larger and less colorful).

Sid’s entire house is pretty great, but Tom’s favorite spot is the basement.

Where he grew up, basements weren’t really places you wanted to spend a lot of time. They were damp, and dark, and a place to store things. He’d gotten into a few adventures in his basement as a youth, but by around ten years old it had lost its allure and become simply a space in his house that he didn’t often go to.

Sid’s basement is not his old basement. Sid’s basement is _huge,_ and not at all damp or dark. It’s so big it’s divided into rooms, a mancave and a gym and a little area with a shooting pad and a net, but there’s also the movie room, and that’s the best spot. The movie room, much like its name would suggest, has a huge screen ready for playing anything you might want to watch, but the real charm of the room is its couch.

Tom’s not even sure you could call it a couch. It’s sort of a half-couch, half-bed hybrid, big enough for ten NHL-sized guys to lay on, which is to say that it’s _massive_. It’s covered in comfy pillows and there’s a never-ending supply of plush blankets to curl up with. Tom doesn’t think he’ll ever make enough money to buy a place like Sid has, but by god if it happens, this would be his first purchase.

He shifts with a small sigh, not really paying attention to _Ant-Man_ , which has everyone else raptly watching the screen. Sid curls his arm a little tighter around Tom’s waist, and Rusty’s on the other side of him idly rubbing his thigh, and he really should just blank his mind out and enjoy this.

Because really, he’s never been happier. They’re a little over a month away from the playoffs - the fucking _NHL Stanley Cup playoffs_ \- and he’s starting to be deployed in a more trusted role on the ice, on the PK, in big defensive situations. He loves his teammates, he loves this organization, and he gets to do it with his friends who have all been brought up from Wilkes-Barre Scranton alongside him. Not just _friends,_ he supposes; everyone on this couch is his, and he belongs to them as well. It’s him and Bryan Rust and Matt Murray and Conor Sheary and Brian Dumoulin and then in the middle of it all is _Sidney Crosby_ and Tom loves these guys so much sometimes he thinks he’ll explode with it all.

They have to share Sid, but that’s okay; everyone else shares him, too. And Sid has made sure to carefully schedule what he teasingly calls ‘young guns’ time, where he brings Tom and the WBS call-ups to his house and takes care of them, sometimes as a group and sometimes individually. Dinner, video games, movies. Love, cuddles, sex.

This can’t last forever; Tom won’t be a Pittsburgh Penguin forever, and that nags at him sometimes, like right now. He shifts again, huffing his annoyance with his stupid thoughts and squirming to get comfortable.

It’s too much, apparently. “What’s up?” Sid asks, nuzzling against Tom’s neck, and suddenly the movie is paused and everyone’s looking at him curiously. He could lie, but...Sid has an uncanny way of knowing when something is bothering someone.

“It’s dumb,” he says, helplessly, and Bryan groans and elbows him in the side.

“If it’s distracting you from this movie, it must be important,” Bryan declares, because he _loves Ant-Man_ and really all Marvel movies, because he is - as they all like to remind him - a giant fucking nerd.

Tom chews on his bottom lip for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I just keep thinking about this,” he starts, slowly. “And how awesome it is, right? And how much I love you guys. But it’s not forever. The trade deadline is coming up, and any of us - well, besides you Sid - could be gone. There’s free agency in a couple years, hell there’s _retirement._ I don’t want this to end,” he finishes softly, staring at his hands and feeling silly and emotional.

“I get it. Don’t think you’re dumb for feeling that way,” Sid says, because for as much as the media calls him an emotionless robot, he has a real knack for seeing straight through to his team’s feelings. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s tough when guys move. You love them one day, and the next they’re gone. Or you’re gone...but you don’t stop loving them, Tommy. It’s just that now you have family in another city, you know?”

Tom frowns. “But it’s not the same. Not like this.”

“You’re right, it’s not exactly the same.” Sid brushes his fingers along the stubble on Tom’s chin. “Some guys you end up losing that connection, because proximity was the big thing keeping it going. But some guys are forever.”

“Jordan Staal called you over breakfast the other day,” Matt volunteers, and Sid nods.

“Yeah,” he says, with a fond smile. “Me an’ Jordy, we’re forever. And sure we’re in different cities now, but that just means an amazing reunion in the summer, and some incredible road trips to Carolina. Besides.” He reaches out to Dumo, who’s gone a little pale at the mention of _Jordan Staal,_ and ruffles his hair. “Dumo wouldn’t be here if Jordy didn’t get traded, right? So there’s always pluses.”

Dumo still looks a little embarrassed, although he offers a thin smile; it’s well known how much Sid loves Jordy, and Dumo was part of that trade. Dumo seems a little sensitive to that fact, like he’s personally responsible for taking away someone Sid loves, and doesn’t feel like an adequate replacement. Conor, sitting in his lap, seems to recognize his anxiety as well, cradling Dumo’s face and kissing him until the dour look slides off.

“So. You okay?” Sid asks, and Tom curls a little closer to him.

“I’m good,” he says, and they turn _Ant-Man_ back on. It really _is_ a good movie, although Tom would never admit that to Bryan, he’d never hear the end of it.

He’s still distracted, though. He knows Sid’s right, and while he loves the whole Penguins team, he just really loves _this group,_ these guys here with him, and the idea of not being with them leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Tom feels like he needs to do something big, something important, that will tie him to these boys and this team forever. He has no idea what, but it’s what he feels.

Now that the credits are rolling, Dumo and Conor are making heart-eyes at each other. They love the group too, Tom knows it, but there’s a little secret piece of their hearts that they save only for each other. Tom would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous, even though intellectually he knows that the love the Penguins share for each other isn’t necessarily equal. Because Dumo does love Tom, and he loves Rusty and Muzz and Olli and Geno and everyone else. But there’s certain guys that are more to him than that. He worships Kris Letang, he’s crazy about Sid, but he’s _devoted_ to Conor. Although seeing 6’4 Dumo and 5’8 - maybe on a _good_ day - Shearsy together always gives Tom a little smile.

It sort of comes to him in a flash as he’s thinking about the two of them together, the way they somehow fit, the way Conor whimpers and groans while Dumo fucks him, his entire body practically covered by the large defenseman. “I think I want to bottom,” Tom blurts out. He’s never done it before; honestly, the concept is a little scary. But if he’s ever going to do it, he wants to do it with these men right here. He wants to give them his first time, a little piece of him always left with this group, even if they move or get traded away. And he wants to be safe in the knowledge that he’s not going to be judged for it. Tom knows the attitudes about bottoming in the league.

Although he _is_ a rookie. This is expected. This is his ‘place’. A norm soundly and furiously rejected by Sid, but nevertheless.

“Here? Now?” Sid asks, rubbing his shoulder. “With who?”

_You,_ he almost says, because just like everyone else he’s mad in love with Sid. But he’s already nervous about this, and being with Sid is...it’s a _lot._ Sid does his very best not to be intimidating, but it’s Sidney Crosby, naked and inside you, and it’s just a little too much for his first time.

“I’d like to,” Conor offers, almost shyly, still firmly ensconced on Dumo’s lap. Tom glances at Dumo, but there’s zero jealousy or uncertainty; actually, he looks thrilled.

“We can watch?” Dumo asks, excited, and when Tom nods assent he fist pumps. “Awesome. I can’t wait to see this.”

“Hey,” Conor pouts. “You know, despite what we do, I’m actually a top.”

Matt makes a choking sound from the other side of Tom, and Conor’s frown deepens. “I heard that! It’s true!”

“Um,” Matt says, “Last week we all got drunk and then suddenly you’re pawing at Dumo going, ‘Duuuuuumo, fuck meeeee pleeeeease, I just wanna be fuuuuucked,’ and making these pathetic little noises.”

“You’re always sitting in his lap. Or Muzz’s lap. Or my lap,” Bryan chimes in. “Or - “

“I top all the time!” Conor interrupts.

Dumo, who is red-faced with silent laughter, suddenly pulls back and eyes Conor. “With who?”

“You know Jordan. My _girlfriend?”_

Dumo scoffs. “Dude, that doesn’t count!”

“Topping is sticking your dick into something, right?”

“By that measure, every guy with a pocket pussy isn’t a virgin anymore,” Matt says, dryly. “No way, man. It’s different.”

Conor groans, and it looks like he’s about to continue arguing, but Sid - whose attention is still on Tom - deftly cuts in. “I can guide you,” he says, and Sid’s staring straight in his eyes with the look that makes Tom feel like he’s the only man in the whole universe. “If you want Conor, I can guide you both. Make sure it’s good for you. You’re going to like it, Tommy. Really.” Sid moves his hand up to caress Tom’s cheek, and he has to stop himself from just closing his eyes and curling into the touch.

“Hey.” Conor’s suddenly reaching across Sid, seeking out his hand. “I’ll be really good for you, Tommy, okay? I promise. It would be really nice.”

“If we can do it here,” Tom says, glancing at Sid; Sid doesn’t really like fucking on this big couch. It’s a pain to clean. But he wants them all together, wants them all within reach during this.

Sid smiles. “I can put down a sheet,” he says, and rolls off the couch. Tom’s not sure where the hell he found a sheet big enough to fit this couch, but everyone grabs a side and jams it under the couch cushions and soon there’s at least a little protection from staining. Sid’s brought lube and condoms, too, and the sight of them, the reminder of what’s going to happen, sets Tom’s heart racing.

Dumo gently nudges Conor towards Tom. “You should kiss,” he says, although it’s less of an order than a sweet suggestion from him, and Tom opens his arms to grab Conor with a smile.

“Hey Shearsy,” he says, pressing his nose to Conor’s, who giggles.

“Hey yourself, Knuckles,” he says, but the laughter dies down and is replaced by a heated sort of look, and after taking in all of Tom’s features, Conor surges forward for a kiss.

They’ve kissed plenty before, lazy afternoons playing video games, followed by grinding on the couch, making out like teenagers, sloppy blowjobs. This feels a little different, though. The heat and the passion are still there, but the frantic energy is tempered, like Conor wants to take his time, or maybe he’s just as nervous as Tom is. Tom realizes that despite him leaning down, Conor’s on his tiptoes, so he leans backwards, toppling them both onto the couch.

There’s some soft laughter, reminding Tom that others are here, and he drags his mouth away from Conor’s and glances up. Sid is sitting close, cross-legged, smiling fondly at both of them; the other three, Bryan and Matt and Dumo, are in a little tight cluster just out of reach. Bryan’s draped across their laps; Matt has his hand under Dumo’s shirt, and Dumo is slowly unzipping Rusty’s pants. But all three sets of their eyes are on Tom and Conor.

“It’s a nice look, the two of you,” Sid tells them, running his fingers through Tom’s hair and then Conor’s. Tom can feel Conor shudder at the touch, grip him a little closer. “You’re gonna look good on him, Tommy.”

Tom peers up at Sid again with a smile, and Conor seizes the opportunity and his bared neck to gently bite at it, mouthing at the pulse point and the edges of beard scruff and down his collar bone. Conor keeps going until he hits Tom’s shirt and then tugs at it, insistently, like he’s personally offended by the fact that it’s still on.

“Hold on, hold on,” Tom laughs softly, squirming out of the shirt, letting both Conor and Sid help pull it over his head.

Conor wastes no time, immediately popping the button on Tom’s shorts. “I wanna eat you out,” he huffs, and Tom groans and bucks up into Conor’s touch.

“Okay,” he says, stomach twisting with nervous desire. He’s rimmed Bryan before - Rusty could stay on his knees all day while someone eats his ass, and they’ve done that once before, this group holding down Rusty and taking turns one-by-one until he was sobbing with it, absolutely wrecked - but he’s never had it done _to_ him.

“Oh shit, Tommy, you’ll love it,” Bryan tells him.

He helps Conor pull off his shorts, his briefs, and then he’s naked and feeling strangely exposed. Tom’s not quite fully hard, his dick still a little unsure about what the future holds, but it’s certainly interested. “So like - laying down like this? Or on my knees? Or…”

Conor’s rubbing the insides of his thighs, soothingly, and it feels good. “Like this, if you pull your legs up,” he says. “Sid, can you…?”

Tom’s not quite sure what Conor’s asking Sid to do, but Sid seems to get it. “Hey,” Sid smiles as he shifts close. “Can we kiss?”

Sid still asks most times, even though Tom has never said no, _will_ never say no. He lets his mouth answer in another way, non-verbal, surging up to Sid and seeking the attention. Sid cradles his head and neck while they kiss, and then Conor is nudging his thighs open a little wider.

His core stiffens up at the first touch of Conor’s tongue on his rim; he can’t help it. It’s just so _different,_ like no sensation he’s ever felt before. “Shhh,” Sid breathes into his mouth, and Tom lets himself relax, melting back into the kiss and letting his legs spread open a little further.

Tom’s still not quite sure about it for the first half-minute or so; it’s not supposed to be wet or warm down there, not usually. But then Conor pulls off and bites at the soft meat of his inner thigh, and a sort of dam breaks in him, something that signals to his brain that this sloppy heat is a good thing, and the next swipe of Conor’s tongue has him moaning and bucking up. Sid puts a gentle but firm hand on his stomach to keep him from squirming, not breaking the kiss. Someone - Tom thinks it’s probably Bryan - makes a bitten-off whimper, getting turned on by the scene in front of him.

“Sid, can you…” Conor asks, his breath hot against Tom’s entrance, and once again it’s not a full question but Sid still understands. He crawls his hand down Tom’s body until he reaches Tom’s cock, fully hard now, and strokes it slowly. Tom wheezes into Sid’s mouth; it’s a lot, it’s too much, he doesn’t want to come yet.

“Wait. Wait, wait,” he puffs into Sid’s mouth, and the hand stills. Conor pops his head up between his legs with a concerned expression. “I just...not yet. Don’t want to...too close,” he pants, and it’s not the best English but they get it, Conor’s expression sliding from concern to a smug sort of pleasure.

“Are you ready for more?” Sid asks. “You wanna keep going? Next is lube, and fingers.”

Tom’s eyes involuntarily go to the lube, laying next to them on the bed. If he’s going to back out, now’s the time, but… “I’m ready,” he says firmly, sounding more confident than he feels.

“Tommy, you’re so beautiful,” Bryan sighs, sounding a little taken-apart, and Tom glances over at his teammates. Dumo, Matt and Bryan are all still watching, but now Bryan’s on Dumo’s lap, his pants hanging off his hips; his briefs are still on, but Matt’s big hand is inside them, working Bryan over slowly. Dumo’s mouthing at a fresh, strawberry-red hickey on Bryan’s neck, although he stops and grins when he sees Tom looking.

“It’s really hot, Knuckles,” Dumo confirms, and Matt makes a noise of agreement.

Tom’s attention is brought back to his own body at the _pop_ of the lube cap. Conor smears some on his fingers and frowns, staring at the stuff and then at Tom and back again. “Sid,” he says, a little whine creeping into his voice, and _again_ Sid seems to understand because he’s next to Conor in a flash. At some point, Tom really needs to learn this Sid-ESP that Conor has going on, he thinks.

“That’s a good amount,” Sid tells him. “You know what it feels like. Go slow, one finger at first, and let Tommy guide you.”

“Okay,” Conor says, and takes a position between Tom’s thighs again. “Y’ready?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

He’s tense again when Conor starts pressing inside, can’t help it, expecting pain but...it’s fine. “Hey, you’re good,” Sid soothes, rubbing his stomach again. “How’s that feel? Not bad, is it?”

“No,” Tom admits, forcing himself to relax under Sid’s touch. “Actually, no.”

Conor blows out a breath between his teeth. “Tommy, you’re just sucking me right in,” he says. “That’s it, it’s all the way in.”

“Move it slowly, Shears,” Sid tells him, and then Conor’s pumping his finger in and out and now Tom can feel the stretch. But it’s still not bad. Really, it’s kind of good. “You tell us when you’re ready for two.”

“I think I’m ready,” Tom sighs as Sid’s hand rubs close to his dick, but not quite touching.

The second finger, even with more lube, is a lot. There’s a little discomfort with it that gets Tom fidgeting, and Sid keeps petting him, down his torso and flank like a skittish animal. He encourages Conor, _more lube,_ or, _a little slower,_ and then he’s saying _crook your finger_ and - 

“Whoa-oh- _oh_ ,” he bucks up, and Sid lets him do it, and there’s low laughter from the other three who are watching.

“I’m surprised Shears’ baby hands can reach his prostate,” Matt says in a mock-whisper, and Conor flips him off with his free hand.

“I’m going to fuck you next, Muzz,” he declares, at least that’s what Tom thinks he says, because he’s still stroking along his prostate and everything feels like electric fire, buzzing through his skin, and he’s having a hard time concentrating. “I’ll fuck every single one of you, just watch.”

“Fuck Tommy first,” Matt shoots back.

“Yes please,” Tom says, because if this is what it’s going to feel like, he’s so ready.

But Sid puts the kibosh on it, moves between his thighs to stand next to Conor. “One more finger, I think,” he says. “For your first time.”

Conor tilts his head at Sid and makes a soft little _hmm?_ noise, and there’s that Sid-ESP again because Sid nods and grins. Tom watches through a haze as Sid picks up the lube and slicks up a finger. “Big stretch, Tommy,” he says, and then he’s pushing his finger in right alongside Conor’s.

“Oh,” Tom whimpers, because now there’s a little undercurrent of pain. Not like any pain he’s ever felt before, not accidentally cutting your finger on a skate blade or getting checked into the boards. Just an ache and a feeling of being _full_ and Tom’s shocked to find that he wants more, the tiny hint of pain making the bright bursts of pleasure even better.

The three watching aren’t laughing now, and someone softly breathes, “Wow,” although Tom can’t tell who it is. Sid starts moving his finger while Conor curls against his prostate, and the dual sensation nearly sends him over the edge.

“Please, I need - please,” he mutters, twisting the sheet up in his fists.

Sid must like what he sees, because he withdraws his finger and gives Conor a fond pat on the rump, and then jumps back on the couch. Tom can hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper as he slowly flips over onto his belly and up onto his knees. “Oh,” Sid says, surprised. “You don’t want to be on your back?”

Tom shakes his head. “I want to be able to see you. See everyone,” he says, and he meets Sid’s eye and then Dumo’s and Bryan’s and Matt’s in turn.

“See everyone except me,” Conor retorts from behind.

“I’ll _feel_ you, Shearsy,” he says, glancing back, and it’s enough for Conor’s playful smirk to morph into a heated little smile.

Conor’s a short guy, but his cock isn’t particularly small; Tom thought three fingers was a lot, but Conor feels huge inside him as he pushes past the first ring of muscle. “Oh,” he chokes a little, and Sid’s there in an instant, grabbing his hands and twining their fingers together.

“Just breathe, Tommy,” he says, pressing his forehead to Tom’s. “You’re doing great.” Then, to Conor: “Keep going. But slow.”

Conor lets out a soft little curse as he bumps Tom’s ass, fully seated. “You’re so tight,” he whispers, rubbing Tom’s back.

“Is there pain?” Sid asks, squeezing his hands. “Do you need more lube?”

“I think...I think I need you to start moving, Shears,” Tom murmurs, and Sid nods at Conor. The first thrust is intense, but it’s _better,_ the uncomfortable fullness slowly slipping away and replaced by that previous sensation of pleasure-pain. He keeps hold of Sid’s hands, though, feels grounded by the touch while Conor fucks him slow.

“I’m gonna need to go faster,” Conor says after a long moment, voice sounding strangled from holding back.

“We got you, Tommy,” Bryan says, and suddenly he’s surrounded, Dumo and Matt and Bryan pressed close, Sid in front holding his hands and Conor fucking him from behind. There’s hands everywhere, sliding along his back and someone’s thumbing at his nipple and someone else has a lube-assisted grip on his cock, and Tom feels _safe,_ enclosed on all sides by these men that he loves.

It feels so good, these gentle loving touches, the hand jerking his dick that he nods, holding back a sob. “Please, Conor, please,” he pleads, and then Conor’s driving in hard, dicking him deep, and he buries his head in the soft cushion and lets the noises drop freely from his mouth to muffle into the couch. Conor’s found a good rhythm against his prostate, and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, he feels utterly taken apart, held together only by the hands all over his body. He can’t even string two words of warning together before he comes, hot and sticky against somebody’s hands as they jerk him to finish.

He’s barely finished with his orgasm when it’s too much; he’s oversensitive, and he no longer has arousal to dampen the discomfort. “Wait,” he cries, and Conor’s hips jerk but come to a stop. He can hear Conor panting, sucking in huge breaths behind him. “I’m so sorry. It’s too much now. I’m sorry,” he says, and he feels awful, he knows Conor must be so close.

Conor huffs, but he pulls out and Tom collapses to the couch, tries to roll onto his back and fails, and then his teammates are helping, flipping him over. He chews on his lip as he looks at Conor, a beautiful flush on his face, his chest heaving with exertion as he fumbles the condom off. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he sighs.

“It’s okay,” Conor says, crawling up to straddle Tom’s thighs, and either he’s a really good liar or it _is_ okay. “I wanted to come on your chest anyway.”

“Oh,” Tom says, and then he glances around, still surrounded by his teammates, each of them just as hard as Conor. “You can. Uh...all of you. If you want.”

“Fuck yes,” Bryan hisses, and he doesn’t need to be told twice, none of them do. Tom thinks perhaps he should help out - he’s got two hands and a mouth - but all he can really do is lay there, exhausted and sated as they jerk themselves off.

Conor comes first, and fast. “Tommy,” he growls, and paints himself onto Tom’s chest, a streak right down his sternum.

Matt’s silent when he finishes, his come sliding into the hollow of Tom’s neck, in contrast to Bryan who growls, “Fuck yes, fuck yes, _fuck yes_ ,” and nearly hits his belly button. Conor bats Dumo’s hand away from himself and takes over, stroking him to completion while Dumo clings onto Conor’s waist and whimpers softly.

Sid’s last, in an awkward spot above Tom’s head, and Tom gets the distinct feeling he’s holding back a little bit. “You can,” he tells Sid, smiling up at him.

“Can…?”

“My face,” Tom says, then amends, “Actually, here.” He licks his lips, opens his mouth wide, and he doesn’t miss the way Sid’s eyes flare open in surprise and desire. Sid doesn't hold back anymore, not after that declaration, sets his cock against Tom’s lips as he comes, flecking into his mouth and against his tongue and a little bit dribbling down his chin.

The room’s silent for a long moment, each man catching their breath, and Matt breaks it first. “Jesus,” he says, and everyone laughs in agreement at that simple, blown-away statement.

“We should do this more often,” Bryan says, “now that we know Knuckles here is a real come-slut.”

Tom scoffs. “Oh, c'mon - “

“Hey man, I’m not the one literally dripping with come right now.”

“You were both amazing. Like, _amazing_ ,” Dumo says softly, nuzzling against Conor. “You fit together so perfect.”

“I meant what I said,” Conor smirks. “I wanna fuck every single one of you. Muzz, I think I said you’re next?”

Matt sits back on his haunches, looking contemplative. “So...next weekend, then?”

Sid’s up and grabbing hand towels, tossing them to everyone, and a big towel for Tom. “I’ll never hear the end of it from the other guys if you’re here two Saturdays in a row,” he says.

“Sid.” Conor pulls back from cuddling Dumo, gives Sid a _look,_ and Sid groans and throws Conor’s towel at him.

“Fine,” he says. “Next weekend.”


	3. Letang/Dumoulin/Maatta, May 2017

The locker room is loud and raucous, the party centered around the Prince of Wales trophy. The Penguins are going back to the Cup finals to play Nashville, and it’s impossible _not_ to be pleased. But Kris is handed an Eastern Conference Champs hat and barely wants to put it on his head.

He hasn’t earned it.

He keeps it off until Hornqvist starts chirping him about his hair, and then Schultzy joins in, and Kris rolls his eyes and pops the cap on his head. “You happy?”

“Fuck yes I am,” Horny hoots. “We’re gonna fuckin’ win it all again!”

And maybe they will, and Kris _hopes_ they do, but it’s different this year. He feels like a ghost; someone who belonged here once, and then died, and is now haunting the premises. Watching, but not truly a part of anything.

What he really wants right now is Sid. Kris loves a lot of guys on this team, but Sid is special to him. Sid knows how to cheer him up, how to make him feel special. Maybe, if he just spends the evening with him - 

But no. Kris searches the locker room and finds him locked in an embrace with Marc-Andre in the corner. Kris loves Flower too, but the goalie situation is a mess. Everyone knows it’s Marc-Andre’s last year here, and it hasn’t been _his_ Flower for months; the smiles and cheer are muted, all but gone some days. He’s hurting, and he needs Sid just as badly as Kris does. No, actually he needs Sid _more_ , because Flower could still play in these playoffs, could still contribute. Not Kris. Kris is...useless, here.

He forces himself to stay through most of the celebration, because it would look strange if he left early. Most of the defense comes over to chat with him, and he tries to be friendly, isn’t quite sure if he succeeds. He feels like he’s let them down by not being out there. It’s silly and he knows it, but he can’t help what he feels, and it’s turning him just as sour as Marc-Andre.

Finally, enough time has passed that he feels comfortable heading out, along with a couple of other guys that have kids at home. “Tanger,” someone calls out as he takes his first step towards freedom, and Kris tries not to scowl.

He glances back. It’s Olli, and Brian’s right beside him, holding his hand. They both have their eyebrows raised and look like they’re expecting something. “Eh?” Kris asks.

“We, ah. We were hoping maybe we could come over tomorrow.”

Kris narrows his eyes, looking at both of them in turn. “Why would you want to do that?”

Olli and Brian share a small frown. “Well, we love you,” Brian says, voice small. “For starters.”

Olli sighs. “It’s been a shit situation, right? The neck? Trust me, we understand. _I_ understand how frustrating it is,” Olli says, and Kris opens his mouth to retort but remembers the significant time Olli has spent injured, and snaps his jaw shut before he can say something dumb. “Let us come over. We want to do something special for you. Dumo can make breakfast, and we can help if you need anything around the house, and then maybe we can help take care of you?”

“I’m not invalid, you know,” Kris snaps, far harsher than he meant to.

“No, that’s not - that’s not what we meant - “ Olli lets go of Brian’s hand, takes a step towards Kris.

Brian is obviously fretting, hating off-ice confrontation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Olli, we don’t have to, it’s fine - “

“No,” Olli says, firmly, stepping up. “We’re not going to let you wallow in sadness, Tanger. You can’t play, and that sucks, but we wouldn’t be here without you. We _want_ to come over. It’s not an obligation, and we don’t think you’re an invalid. We just think you need a little cheering up.”

“So you want to do that by...what, cleaning my house?”

“We want to do that by sucking your dick,” Olli says, and behind him, Brian blushes. “But before that, sure. If you really want us to clean, we’ll clean. Whatever you need or want.”

Kris scrubs his face with a hand; he’s being a jerk, assuming the worst. Sometimes he still treats these two like the star-struck rookies they once were, instead of friends and colleagues and occasional lovers like they are now. Kris isn’t usually a threesome kind of guy - mostly he wants all the attention on _him_ , not shared - but he does need cheered up, and these two are trying hard. “Okay,” he sighs. “Cath has been spending all her time with Vero anyway. She’ll be happy to visit tomorrow and take Alex so we can have some time alone.”

They decide on a time, and Kris is finally able to head out. He glances back before he goes - maybe Sid has dragged himself away from Marc-Andre? - but no, they’re still together. Brian and Olli have made their way into the pile of younger players that has a tendency to form, most of the black aces along with Guentz and Rusty and Muzz and Shears. They’re all on the floor, cuddling, and Brian slides into the group with a grin as the boys mob him, patting him on the head and shoulder. Shears stands up and play-tackles Olli, cradling him to the ground as they both laugh.

Kris isn’t usually jealous of this, most of the time he’s not even in the mood for the puppy pile at the back of the team plane that the D has a tendency to become, but tonight…

Those kids would have a fucking heart attack if Kris came over there, he knows, so he just leaves. He has no right to intrude.

~~~~~

Kris starts off the next day with a workout. It’s been nearly two months since his surgery, and his neck is significantly better, but he’s still probably got a month or two of rehab to go. So he can’t push himself as hard as he wants to in his home gym, and it irritates him. He tries to focus on what he _can_ do, and finally feels the tension bleed off as the sweat starts dripping. Working out has always been his favorite thing to calm him down.

The house smells like bacon when Kris gets back upstairs. _Real_ bacon, which means Brian must have brought it; Kris only keeps turkey bacon in the house. Moving into the kitchen, Olli is cutting fruit, and Brian’s manning the stove. “Ruining my diet, eh,” Kris says from the doorway, watching them work.

“Told you he’d know right away,” Olli says, and Brian shrugs.

“Real bacon can make _anyone_ feel better. That’s my policy, and I’m sticking to it.”

“I need to shower,” Kris says.

“We’ll have coffee ready when you’re done,” Olli says with a smile, and Kris tries for a thin smile back. It still feels weird, having these two boys here and making breakfast, but he’ll make the best of it.

He showers, and Olli ushers him to the couch and brings him a cup of coffee. To his shock, it’s doctored well, with just the right amount of cream and no sugar. He’s not sure how they know, but he’s not complaining. Kris slowly sips his coffee, letting the cup warm his hands and allowing himself to relax. He’s worked out, he’s got that freshly-clean feeling he loves, there’s no kid or wife that needs anything, the coffee is perfect, breakfast is cooking. Okay, maybe this won’t be too bad.

They make a ton of food. Omelettes, toast, a fruit plate, bacon, some oatmeal with almond butter. “We have a busy day ahead of us,” Brian says when Kris points this out, and he and Olli share a little smile and Kris wonders what the hell they have up their sleeves. The food is good - Brian’s an accomplished cook - although he doesn’t eat nearly as much as the other two, who are trying to keep weight on for their playoff series. Brian especially puts down more food than Kris thinks is humanly possible, and gamely takes the teasing that comes with it.

“You’re going to be too full for…” Olli trails off, raising his eyebrows, like they share some secret knowledge of what’s coming.

“No I won’t. You’ll see.”

Kris regards the two with a skeptical smirk. “So now you want to...what? Scrub my bathtub? Vacuum my carpet? I have house cleaners, you know.”

“Your bathroom door is kind of fucked from what I can see,” Olli says. “And the drywall around it.”

Kris colors a little. It’s true, and it’s _embarrassing;_ Alex had a fit shortly after Kris had surgery, that Daddy couldn’t play with him, and rampaged around the house while Cath was out. The knob’s loose on the door, and there are tiny toddler-sized holes down the hallway. Kris hasn’t been able to repair them yet with his neck, and he’s always hesitant to let strangers into his home, especially to fix something so easy as that. They’re easy, yet time-consuming and requiring contorting into positions that are still uncomfortable if he stays in them too long.

“I got the door,” Brian says immediately, and from Olli’s scowl, Kris can tell he’s not thrilled to be taking the dry wall piece. “I cooked breakfast,” he says to Olli’s pout, and Olli finally relents.

_“Neither_ of you have to - “

“Shush,” Olli says. “Before we start, do you want a drink?”

“Like an alcohol drink? It’s - “ Kris glances at the clock. “Not even noon yet.” Both men smirk silently, and Kris gives in. “Do either of you know how to make an Old Fashioned?”

Olli ends up making it while Brian cleans off the table. It’s not _perfect_ , but Kris tries not to be fussy, because he’s here being waited on hand and foot. “We’re at your command today,” Olli says, offering a kiss along with the drink, and that sends a little shiver of interest up his spine. Nothing’s really been in his control since that surgery; he’s been at the whim of his doctors, his rehab schedule, watching others play his minutes and decide whether the Penguins hoist the trophy this year or not.

“Anything I want?”

“Anything,” Olli confirms.

“I hold you to it,” Kris calls back.

It takes about an hour - Olli checks on him once, to see if he needs a new drink, while he lounges on the couch and reads - before Kris hears squabbling and then laughter. “Dude!” Brian shrieks. “Aw, come on!”

“What are you idiots doing?” Kris calls, but there’s just more laughter, so he drags himself off the couch to see. When he gets there, everything actually looks really nice; there’s a shiny new knob on the bathroom door, and the drywall is patched and drying. But the primer isn't just on the drywall, there’s a healthy streak of it in Brian’s giant playoff beard, and he looks playfully angry while Olli laughs his ass off.

“You’re a dick,” Brian declares, trying to wipe it off, which only succeeds in smearing it further. “Dude! Do you know how long it takes to wash this? Actually you don’t, because you legit have a beard that I can grow in a _day.”_

Olli’s beard _is_ truly terrible, rivaling Sid’s, maybe even worse. “I’ll do it again,” Olli warns with a grin. “Keep it up.”

Kris opens his mouth to chirp them - _aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better?_ \- but the playful antics and obvious affection these two have do sort of make him feel a little better. Especially when Olli trots over and nuzzles that terrible beard of his along Kris’ neck. “Tanger, how’s it look?”

“Good,” Kris admits, running his hand along Olli’s back, causing him to arch up. “Better than you two ended up. If you want to suck my dick, you better shower.”

Brian nearly chokes at the sharp transition, caught off guard, although Olli grins like he’s been waiting for it. “Let’s go, Dumo,” he declares, grabbing Brian’s hand and tugging him away. “Shower time.”

“You’re washing my beard.”

“If you’re good.”

“Weirdos,” Kris calls after them. He ends up sitting on his couch, drinking the dregs of the Old Fashioned and scrolling through porn for some ideas. He has _two_ enthusiastic boys today, and he can do anything he wants. What the hell does he even want?

He’s still not sure when they show up in front of him, damp and clean and shirtless. “Why the hell you put pants back on,” Kris asks, and Olli shoots Brian a triumphant look.

Brian sighs. “I thought maybe...I wasn’t sure if you wanted to like, do this _yet_...oh, shut up, Olli. Don’t start.”

“Told you,” Olli whispers.

Kris snaps his fingers, setting aside his tablet. “Well in that case you can make me another drink. And then you can get your asses in the bedroom.” They head to the kitchen for the drink, and Kris calls back, _“Less bitters!”_

The second drink _is_ better. In the bedroom, he hops up on the bed to lounge, taking his drink along with him and indicating that Brian and Olli should come closer. “Get each other naked,” he says.

“Can we kiss? Like, while we’re undressing?” Olli asks, and Brian beams.

Kris flaps his hand. “Give me a show, then.”

It’s Olli that steps forward first, playfully tugging on Brian’s beard before grazing his hands down his bare chest. “I cleaned you up good, didn’t I?” he asks Brian with a smile.

“Always,” Brian says softly, and Kris wonders how often they’ve done this together. They kiss like they’ve learned each other’s mouths; Brian slides a big hand up through Olli’s hair and alternately caresses the back of his skull and fists the locks in a tight grip. Olli makes a soft little noise every time the grip goes tight, and he gets Brian’s shorts undone without even having to look down. He slides his hands around Brian’s waist and they disappear inside his boxers, clutching his ass.

There’s a stark difference between the two as they get naked. They’re both the same weight, but Brian has two inches on Olli. He’s lanky and long and quite frankly a little scrawny for what you’d expect based on his height and the kind of facial hair he can grow. Not Olli; he’s deceptively small in a suit, but naked he’s got definition everywhere, in his traps and arms and thighs. And yet somehow, a round babyface and an absolutely awful beard. Still, they look good together.

Kris allows them to kiss for a long moment, naked and wrapped up in each other. He lets them go long enough that they’re both hard, and Kris is well on his way, palming himself through his shorts as he nurses his drink and watches. But he can’t let them go on forever like this, so he clears his throat loudly.

Despite Olli’s pale skin it’s Brian’s that’s flushed red when they part, ruddy color high in his cheeks, blinking like he’s dazed. “Tanger,” he huffs, still clutching Olli’s shoulder. “Sorry. We’re bein’ rude.”

“Maybe we can undress you now?” Olli asks, and Kris sets down his drink and raises his arms out in a gesture of silent acceptance.

Kris ends up squished between the two; Brian’s behind him, working his shirt slowly up his chest while he nuzzles the back of Kris’ neck, and Olli’s in front, on his elbows and knees to get at his pants and belt. The shirt’s off first, and Brian wraps his arms around Kris from behind, mouthing at his shoulder. “Your beard,” Kris scolds gently, because it’s scratchy and bristly and _everywhere,_ but he reaches back behind him and cups Brian’s jaw, arching into the kisses.

“Itchy?” Brian asks against his skin.

“Very,” Kris says, voice going a little high at the end because Olli’s gotten his pants pushed down and brushes his mouth gently against the underside of his cock. “You going to do more than that?”

“Maybe,” Olli teases, but he gets his mouth on Kris quickly, nothing teasing about it. Olli gives meticulous and thoughtful blowjobs, listening to every noise the receiver makes to guide him as to what to do next. It’s good - a different kind of good than Brian, whose blowjobs are sloppy and enthusiastic with zero technique - and right now Olli’s careful attention and Brian’s strong embrace has Kris feeling a bit more grounded than he has been in awhile. He sinks back into Brian’s arms and lets the pleasure wash over him, and Brian reaches down his belly to tangle his fingers in Olli’s hair, right next to Kris’ hand.

“Yeah, Olli,” Brian whispers softly, sounding awed. “You look so good like that, with Tanger down your throat. You’re so hot.”

Olli sucks a little harder at the praise, and Kris can feel the first tendrils of orgasm deep in his gut. “Slow down,” Kris tells him. “I don’t want to come. Not yet.”

“We can give you multiple,” Brian says, sucking Kris’ earlobe into his mouth, giving him a full-body shiver. “We’re here for you.”

“You forget my age,” Kris says, gently patting Olli’s cheek to get him to pull off. “You two are together a lot, hmm?”

“Not a _lot,”_ Olli says, voice a little raw from the blowjob. “Maybe once a month.”

“Who usually tops?”

Olli glances up at Brian, who chuckles. “Me,” Brian says. “Always. Olli has to be in a certain mood to top.”

Kris puts his hand under Olli’s chin, lifts his gaze up. “You in that certain mood today?”

“I, uh.” Olli blinks rapidly, staring back at Kris. “Would that make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

Behind him, Brian makes a guttural, interested sound in the back of his throat. “Hell yeah, I bet you’re awesome at it,” he says to Olli. “Everything, I mean, getting me ready, fucking me. You’re so good at everything else.”

That leaves Olli blushing, and Kris leaves them to the prep, taking his drink back up as he watches. Just like the blowjob, Olli is absolutely precise about the amount of lube, how deep his fingers push, when to add a second. But if Olli is trying to listen to Brian’s noises to gauge anything, it’s probably futile. He’s on his hands and knees on the bed, head buried in the comforter and despite the muffle of the sheets, moaning loud and long and continuous with the occasional punctuated curse when Olli twists his fingers just right.

“You sound like you love it all,” Kris tells him, gently skimming his fingers down Brian’s back.

“I do,” he whimpers, turning his head to look at Kris. He already looks a little wrecked, beard fuzzy and wild from twisting his face in the sheets. “Olli’s so good, _so good_ at this, I knew he would be. _Fuck,_ Olls, just like that, yeah.”

Olli is starting to look a little undone himself at the praise, wiping at the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “I, uh, I can’t tell. Are you ready?”

“No,” Kris says, before Brian can answer. “I want you to give him more.”

“More?” Brian squeaks. “But - “

_“More,_ Dumo. I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough.” Then, to Olli: “Go harder. I want him begging.”

Olli takes a quavery little breath at Kris’ tone and the shudder that runs through Brian, and obeys, pressing his fingers hard and deep and then doing it again. Brian yelps nonsense into the comforter, and Kris grabs his chin and drags his face up. “Let us hear you,” he says.

“Please,” he whines, face bright red. “If you want me to beg, I’ll do it, I’ll - _please.”_

“Can you come like this?” Kris asks, stroking Brian’s beard, not letting go of his face. “Around Olli’s fingers?”

“I’ve never - I don’t know - “

“Try,” Kris coos, and then sees Olli pressing a hand to the base of his cock, squeezing, trying to get some relief. “And you, Olli, no touching yourself. Not yet.”

“Fuck, Tanger,” Olli grumps, but takes his hand away obediently. As if a mockery of Olli’s inability to do so, Kris reaches down and gives himself a few short strokes before tapping his cock against Brian’s cheek.

“Open up,” he says, and Brian lets his jaw hang open while Kris feeds his cock inside.

There’s no technique to it; Brian just keeps his throat relaxed and relatively still, letting Kris fuck slowly into his mouth while he continues to moan from Olli’s fingers. Tears spring to his eyes and then run freely down his face, right alongside the spit and saliva that bubbles out of his mouth. He’s a _mess._

But it’s Olli that breaks first. “Tanger,” he says through grit teeth, and Kris can see his hips jerking, humping the air for relief that isn’t coming. “You want someone to beg? Please, Tanger, let me fuck him?”

Kris pouts, although it’s all for show. He hadn’t quite come into this scenario expecting to order these two around, control the show, bring them to tears, but - now that he’s here, he’s enjoying it. He pinches Brian’s nose shut until he has to pull off, coughing and spluttering and gasping for air. “But I wanted him to come on your fingers,” he says, making sure to sound disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Brian says between coughs. “I don’t think I can.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t get to come at all?”

Brian regards him with big sad doe eyes and an involuntary, sad whimper, and Kris softens, stroking his fingers through his damp beard. “Let’s have Olli fuck you and maybe if you’re good, we see? Why don’t you ask him nice?”

“Olli.” Brian twists his body around to meet Olli’s eye, and Kris can see him audibly swallow at the sight of Brian’s tear-streaked face. “Can you please fuck me?”

Olli blinks, then looks at Kris, as if for direction. “Ask him how he wants it,” Kris prompts.

“Uh - Dumo, how do you want it?”

“Hard?” Brian glances at Kris, who nods. “Hard. Fast. Like we did right before the playoffs, you had your ankles hooked over my shoulder and - “

“I remember,” Olli murmurs.

Kris scoots back a little. “Show me. I want to see, eh?”

Brian gets flipped over onto his back, and Olli hovers over him and folds him in half, kissing him desperately as he lubes up his cock. “You ready?” he whispers against Brian’s mouth, who nods, kissing him again.

Kris doesn’t bottom much, so he’s fucked Brian plenty, and he’s used to the noises that Brian makes when he first pushes inside, little panting huffs and groans that he’s making now with Olli. But Kris is surprised by Olli, usually so quiet during sex, making this little half-muttered chant of something, some garbled English or maybe Finnish. His face is a picture of concentration, watching Brian’s jaw drop in bliss, watching him arch him and writhe underneath him.

_“Fuck_ you’re so fuckin’ good, Olls,” Brian pants. “Maybe I can come just like this, holy shit. Fuck me, please.”

The praise snaps Olli’s tenuous grasp on restraint, and he pins Brian’s shoulder to the bed and drives into him, _hard,_ over and over again. Brian practically howls; he’s always stupid loud, Kris has playfully threatened to gag him in hotel rooms, but this is something else, praise and encouragement and filth dropping out of his mouth. Kris grabs a healthy handful of his hair and yanks, enough to be a little painful, which causes Brian to momentarily shut up and stare wild-eyed at Kris. “Be quiet,” Kris says, enunciating carefully. “Be quiet and you can come. Touch yourself. Olli, don’t you dare come until I say.”

Olli curses, slowing down the snap of his hips. “Close,” he grits out.

“So get _un_ close,” Kris growls, and Olli mutters something that sounds extremely unflattering.

Brian raises his forearm to his mouth and bites hard, enough that Kris can see the skin whitening out, and either the pain or the gag makes him quiet down, only an occasional whimper as he jerks himself off. It’s fast; the whimper spikes in volume and then is quickly stifled as he shoots all over his stomach, cock pulsing in his hand. Olli makes a little wrecked noise as Brian clenches around him in his orgasm. “Tanger,” he pleads.

“My turn,” Kris declares, and both men’s eyes fly open in surprise. Olli especially looks shocked. “You did say _anything,_ Olli. You told me yourself.”

“But…” Olli’s protest dies on his lips, and he grits his teeth and pulls out, slumping backwards on the bed, hard cock bobbing in the air. He presses a fist to his groin and pushes, chasing pressure, trying to find some relief from being abruptly yanked back from his orgasm.

“Good boy,” Kris says, and Olli’s frown gets a little bit lighter. Kris files that away for later, what Olli will do for a little bit of praise. He swipes his thumb through the mess on Brian’s stomach and smears it along Olli’s mouth. “Suck,” he instructs, and pushes the digit inside.

He does it a few more times, feeding Brian’s come to Olli and keeping up the steady soft praise, until Olli’s frown is totally gone. His cock still sits hard against his stomach, however. “You’ll still get to come, you just have to wait, like a good boy,” Kris tells him, and Olli pouts but nods. Then, to Brian, he asks, “Can you take more?”

“Always, Tanger,” he says, even though he looks exhausted, he gladly spreads his thighs for Kris, who kneewalks from his spot by Brian’s head to between his legs. Olli’s now kneeling next to Brian, close enough for both men to touch if they wanted. “Always for you. I love you. And I love you,” Brian tells Olli, grabbing his hand.

Olli keeps Brian’s hand while Kris pushes inside. Brian makes a little punched out noise, clutching Olli’s hand tight, obviously overstimulated. “I’m going to come inside you,” Kris says, and it’s not a question, although he knows Brian will say-so if it’s not okay.

Brian nods furiously; of course it’s okay, because Kris sometimes thinks he’d do anything for anyone, easy and happy as a general rule, a people-pleaser. Kris takes his time with the thrusts, wanting Olli to wait his turn, leisurely enjoying Brian’s body. Unlike his usual enthusiastic, loud self, Brian lays back and lets himself be used, boneless from his orgasm. Olli just has to watch, holding Brian’s hand like a lifeline, and Kris can tell he’s slowly unraveling, enjoying the sight but anxious to come.

The first waves of orgasm hit hard from the slow crescendo of build up. Shockingly hard; Kris feels like all the air has been punched out of him. “Take it,” he growls at Brian as he fucks through his orgasm, hard little snaps of his hips. Brian whimpers but so does Olli, like he’s the one being fucked right now.

“Tanger,” Brian murmurs, reaching up for Kris. Kris isn’t usually much of a kisser with anyone but Cath or Sid - whom he can make out with for hours, until his lips are bruised and chapped - but he lets Brian tug him down and capture his mouth in a sweet little kiss. Mostly he does it so Olli will have to wait even longer; he can hear Olli’s harsh exhales, riled up and on edge as he makes out with Brian.

“Guys,” Olli says, and he sounds more out of control than Kris perhaps has ever heard him before. When he lifts his head from Brian’s mouth, Olli’s red all over, his shoulders shaking with how heavy he’s breathing, trying to keep it under control. “I really - _really_ need - “

Kris turns his attention away from Olli for the moment to pet down Brian’s chest, damp with sweat, ignoring Olli’s indignant squawk at being ignored. “Dumo, you want more? You want Olli to fuck you again, come inside you?”

Brian looks dazed, his mouth kissed-up and red, eyes half lidded like he’s going to fall asleep. But he still nods. “Yes please.”

“Stay with us now,” Kris says, tweaking Brian’s nipple, which does the trick; his eyes fly open wide and he mades a very undignified sound.

He takes his sweet time moving out from between Brian’s legs, long enough that he thinks based off Olli’s glare that he might get manhandled out of the way. After a brief pause to wonder what that might be like - wonder if he might _enjoy_ it a little - he finally scoots out of the way for Olli to take his place. “Tanger, stay,” Brian says, reaching for him, so Kris stays close, fondly scratches his fingers through his beard. Suddenly Brian’s head tips up, mouth open in a silent _O,_ and Kris glances back down to see Olli pushing inside.

“You okay?” Kris asks, because Brian’s breath has kicked up.

He nods, pulling his legs up to give Olli a better angle. “It’s just a lot,” he says. “I’ve never had...two, right in a row.” Kris can see Brian’s dick, gamely trying to get hard again under the stimulation.

“It’s okay?”

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s great.” Brian grins at Olli, who has paused out of concern for Brian, and looks half crazed with the effort. “You can. Hard.”

He barely gets the end of the word out before Olli drives in, and the room is filled with the slap of Olli’s thighs against Brian’s ass. “I think you do like this,” Kris tells Brian, tweaking his nipple again and drawing a whimper. “Maybe after we win the Cup, the whole D corp bends you over and fucks you in a row, breeds your sweet ass. Maybe you like that?”

Brian groans, but it’s Olli that whispers _oh fuck yeah_ at that statement, so Kris turns his attention there. “Or maybe you?” he asks Olli. “Maybe that’s what _you_ like? On your knees, someone fucking your mouth and ass, wearing one of those championship t-shirts - “

Olli curses loudly - at least Kris thinks it’s a curse, it’s in Finnish - hangs his head and closes his eyes as he comes, his last few thrusts hard enough to move Brian up the bed. Brian’s mostly hard again now, and he moves to jerk himself off, but Kris gently smacks his hand away.

“Pull out,” he tells Olli, and after a few come-dumb, slow blinks, Olli does as directed. Kris reaches around, hooks his thumb along Brian’s rim - drawing a cry - and gently pulls the digit down. Come spills out around his finger, both his own and Olli’s, dripping down Brian’s ass.

“Wow,” Olli murmurs, staring at the sight.

Kris pulls his finger away, coated in white. “We made a real mess of Dumo. I think you should help clean him up, eh?”

“Clean - “

“With your tongue.” Olli’s jaw drops a little, and Kris waits for the pushback, waits, but - instead of a protest, Olli just drops to his hands and knees and buries his face between Brian’s legs.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Brian cries out and nearly bucks off the bed, and Kris has to hold his hips down. It must be intense, and Kris can tell he’s overstimulated, but his dick doesn’t go soft; if anything, he gets harder. Another interesting fact that Kris files away for later.

“I got you, I got you,” Kris soothes, getting a hand on Brian’s dick and jerking it as Olli continues to lick and suck. Brian’s second orgasm is wrung out, sounding almost pained as it pulses slow out of him. He gently pulls Olli away from Brian, and he's a mess, lower jaw and mouth streaked wet.

“Tanger, Olli,” Brian murmurs muzzily, looking like he’s about to pass out any second.

“You need a shower,” Kris laughs. “We all d - “ He’s cut off as Olli nearly tackles him, pressing a kiss to his lips before he can protest, licking a healthy streak of come into his mouth. He decides to allow it, accepting the snowball with good grace, although he does pinch Olli’s nipple hard enough that it probably hurts.

“Shower later. Cuddle now,” Brian yawns.

“You’re changing my sheets,” Kris warns, but lets himself be maneuvered into the cuddles. Somehow, he ends up in the middle, with Olli’s broad chest pressed against his back and Brian with his face smooshed against Kris’ chest, already snoring. Olli is damp with sweat, and Brian’s beard is scratchy against his skin, and it’s objectively uncomfortable, but Kris realizes he’s happy. He hasn’t thought about his injury all day, hasn’t felt bad about himself even once, something that hasn’t happened for months. It takes a lot to relinquish control, let yourself be bossed around, but these two happily did it for him.

“I love you two idiots,” Kris says, and Olli laughs softly behind him. Brian, against his chest, just keeps snoring.

**Author's Note:**

> Likely next on the docket is the 2015-2016 baby Pens boys who all got called up to the show that year (Rust, Sheary, Dumoulin, Kuhnhackl, Murray) + Sid.


End file.
